SUNSHINE

“Now you listen here,” the old lady, a veritable ray of sunshine, barked down the phone. “I know what you’re doing. I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”

There was some truth to her words. She was very old.

“I know what you’re doing. I know your game,” Sunshine repeated, the phone cradled tightly to her ear, her free hand waving menacingly at the mouthpiece, as if chastising it. “You’re trying to scam me, aren’t you?”

Even from my position in the backyard, hiding behind a rabbit hutch, I could hear the person on the other end of the phone, his words filtering through the kitchen and out the open back door in a garbled mess of static. Sunshine had turned the volume up all the way, but the phone was still jammed tight to her ear, and it was clear she still couldn’t understand everything he said.

“I told you, I’m not paying another penny,” she said defiantly. “You have to fix it for free… . But it’s your responsibility!” she continued, her tone harsh, her words breaking.

It was a warm night, barely a breeze to disturb it, but the street was quiet. A faint whiff of barbecue hung in the air and a few houses over I could see the remnants of a garden party—chairs scattered, disposable plates, platters and beer bottles littering the grass—under the stark glow of a white fluorescent security light. The light had flickered on and off several times already, catching the movement of some persistent nocturnal critter looking for scraps of food.

“But it’s your responsibility. You fixed it for me. You said it was fine. Now it’s not fine. What does that tell you?”

The other yards were quiet, still, dark, as if the entire neighborhood had paused to listen in to their crazy neighbor’s conversation as she berated a poor IT technician and tried to force him to fix her failing computer, seemingly just as old as she was.

“I don’t care if it was three years ago. It’s the same computer, isn’t it? It should work, shouldn’t it?”

If the Karens of the world had a hierarchy, Sunshine would be at the top, waving her cane around and telling everyone that things were better in her day when women were compliant, men wore suits, and everyone was racist.

“Well, if it’s got a virus then it must be your fault. It didn’t have a virus before you touched it, did it? Listen here, young man.” She said those words a lot, demanding a person’s attention so she could talk down to them. “I may seem like a sweet old lady, but trust me, you do not want to get on my bad side. If you don’t fix my computer for free, I’ll be talking to your manager and I’ll let him know how you treated a sweet, kindly old lady.”

She was built of sinew, bile, and xenophobia—she definitely wasn’t sweet or kindly.

“Uh-huh, I thought you would change your tune when I said that.”

The smell of urine and straw invaded my nostrils as I edged around the hutch. The rabbit stirred immediately and ran to the mesh, its whiskers poking through, its little nose sniffing.

“Hey, little dude,” I whispered, poking my finger through and stroking its nose. “You going to be quiet for me?”

In response, the rabbit seemed to settle, retreating from the wire. It moved to the back of the cage, sat on its hind legs, shifted as if to get comfortable, and then unleashed a mighty thump, its back legs kicking hard against the floor and shaking the cage.

Fuck.

“Shh,” I said, placing my finger through.

It kicked again. And again.

“Thank you for finally—” the old woman stopped short.

I rattled the cage slightly, trying to draw the rabbit’s attention. It didn’t work. It thumped again, even louder this time.

“Hold on a minute.”

Sunshine’s footsteps shuffled toward the kitchen door; the kitchen light cast shadows on the patio when she stepped in front of it.

Moments later, Sunshine popped her head out, looked left, away from the hutch, and then right, straight at me. The kitchen beamed a halo of orange around the short concrete steps. There was enough residual light for her to make out my silhouette, for her to realize that she had an intruder and to call for help.

After interminable seconds, her eyes squinting, her face squirming, she retreated. “Just the bloody rabbit,” she told the technician, her sight seemingly as limited as her hearing. “I tell you, don’t ever get grandchildren. You’ll end up broke with a house full of toys, a yard full of pets, and a fat little ankle-biter who thinks you’re fucking Willy Wonka. Anyway, enough of that nonsense. When are you coming to fix my computer?”

The kitchen door slammed shut, draping the patio in darkness, silencing the rabbit’s complaints and giving me time to compose myself.

Despite living alone and having a deep-seated fear of being scammed, Sunshine was very lax about her home security. There were no security lights, no cameras, and while she had locked the front and back doors, she hadn’t secured the patio doors.

I knew there was no risk of bumping into anyone as I slipped inside. There were no dogs or cats—nothing beyond a severely neglected and paranoid rabbit. She had one daughter, who lived several miles away and used her as a free babysitter, and a son, who lived on the other side of the country and used her as an ATM.

Sunshine was surprisingly nice to both of them and extended the same respect to her close friends. The few that she had. Everyone else, however, was fair game—the archetypal bitter old woman, a sadistic septuagenarian who turned her anger outward and unleashed it on everyone from the postman to the poor sap who once agreed to fix her computer and then never heard the end of it.

Sunshine was bitter and angry at the world, and that bitterness, that anger, had to be snuffed out.

—

The house stank of stale piss, of neglected nursing homes, mold, and lily of the valley. The carpets were worn thin by years of shuffling and neglect. A path had been ground into the living room carpet, tracing a line from the kitchen, across the living room, and to the bottom of the stairs—years of practiced movements, of taking the same rehearsed route from one end of the house to the other.

Sunshine shuffled across this line as she finished her conversation. The technician had relented; she was getting what she wanted. But she wasn’t happy, and she wasn’t thankful.

“What do you mean, goodwill gesture?” she groaned as she scampered across the carpet, pausing to gesture threateningly with her cane. “You messed up my computer and now you’re fixing it. That’s not a goodwill gesture, is it?”

She smiled, her features cracking like plaster in the sun as they formed an unfamiliar expression.

“I should think so, as well,” she said, nodding her head firmly and continuing to traverse the worn path. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Eight a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

She hung up the handset, dropped it on a coffee table, and then entered the hallway. I listened to her mumble and groan, curse and shout, and then heard the familiar sound of a stairlift kicking into action. It was a sound that brought a smile to my face, a sound that signaled the end for this sadistic little sociopath.

I was at the bottom of the stairs when she eventually saw me, the smug smile on her face instantly exchanged for one of shock, then horror, then panic. But she had already buckled herself into the chair lift and it had a long way to go.

“No—No—” she spat, her wide eyes turning from me to the top of the stairs, her little legs kicking madly, as if willing the stairlift to move faster.

The stairlift had climbed just three or four steps. I climbed the first, then the second, my eyes locked on hers.

“What do you want?” she asked.

I shrugged, taking another step, keeping pace with the stairlift. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” I lied.

“You’re not getting my money,” she said, “so keep your filthy thieving hands away.”

I laughed. I had expected panic and she hadn’t let me down. Even sadists panicked when faced with the unexpected. I had also expected her to plead with me, to beg me, maybe even to try and shout for help, but even in the grip of fear, she wasn’t letting the tough facade drop.

“I’m not here for money.” I took another two steps, the stairlift now past halfway. It chugged slowly and painfully, crawling at a snail’s pace. Like everything else in the house, the occupant included, it was old, worn-out, and on its last legs.

Sunshine eyed me curiously, a disgusted glint in her eye. “If you’re here to do unholy things to me, I won’t let you.”

“You mean rape you?” I shook my head. “Now, come on, what do you take me for?”

“Do you want my jewelry?”

I shook my head and noted, with great amusement, that she had slowly unbuckled the seat belt. She knew she was just a few seconds from the top, had glimpsed the wooden cane that she kept against the banister.

“Good, because you’re not getting it.”

I climbed another step, two from the stairlift, five from the landing.

Her eyes flickered to the cane and then to the bedroom door on the other end of the hallway. I could almost read her thoughts as she contemplated making a run for it, using the cane to keep me at bay as she dived for the phone.

But she was old, unfit, unwell. In her mind, she could move quickly, might be strong enough to knock me out and quick enough to make it to the phone. But in reality, she was none of those things.

Another step, edging ever closer.

“Well,” she said, “whatever you have planned—”

Sunshine sprang from the chair, one hand slamming down forcefully on the emergency stop, the other grabbing for the cane. Her reactions took me by surprise. By the time I reacted, it was already too late. She grabbed the rubberized end of the cane and swung; I moved my hands to block my face just as the solid wooden handle came hurtling toward me.

My left wrist took the brunt of the impact as the handle crushed cartilage and cut skin. Something broke and I yelped in pain, clasping the injured appendage with my other hand.

The action threw me off balance, and I fell against the banister and then rocked backward, my leg giving way underneath me. I grabbed onto the banister with both hands, holding on despite the pain that raced through my body. Sunshine didn’t wait to admire her work. She ran away—heading for the bedroom, cane in hand, staggering like a frantic turtle.

“Bitch,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

I ran after her, squeezing past the stairlift and charging through the open door. I tackled her just as she reached for a phone on her bedside table, dragging her limp and frail form to the thinly carpeted floor.

Another bolt of pain through my wrist, another impact, more agony; I grabbed the back of her head with my free hand, her gray hair like a wire brush beneath my fingers. But she wasn’t giving up that easily. She bucked with an unexpected force, knocking me off balance, turning underneath my grasp and forcing me off.

She moved quicker than anticipated and was on her knees soon after shaking me off, the cane swinging madly once more, aiming for my head. I rolled away from the forceful swing and watched as the momentum knocked her over, her eyes wide as she realized her fate and toppled over like some ancient statue. I heard the squishy, crunching sound of bone, cartilage, and flesh meeting a solid surface, but she was ready again just as quickly as I was, pushing herself back onto her knees, her face now bloodied, her breathing heavy.

Another swing of the cane, just as wild, but much less coordinated. It disrupted her balance again, but this time she corrected herself, planted her feet like a boxer preparing for a finish, and swung again, and again—each swing more chaotic, more desperate, none of them connecting.

“You fucking bastard!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you!”

She swung again, still on her knees, still putting all her upper body into the action.

I calmly stood, staying out of the reach of the cane and her furious but fatigued swings.

“I’ll kill you!” she repeated.

The sweeping, violent movements continued, but were several feet from their intended target. I stood back—hands on hips, breath short and raspy—and watched her fail. She wasn’t even looking at me anymore—her eyes were wild, raging, flickering from left to right. It was as if she couldn’t see me.

The swinging stopped, the cane limp in front of her, grasped in both hands. She was breathless, panting like a dog, a pained expression on her bloody face. She took a deep breath and then whined as she exhaled; another breath, another whine. “I’ll. Kill. You.” She lifted the cane above her head, set her eyes in my general direction and then brought it down in one fell swoop, her face and torso crashing down with it.

The cane hit the floor, and she followed it, her bloodied face meeting the worn carpet for the second and last time. I remained standing, contemplating, preparing; as my breathing slowed, hers stopped altogether.

In her efforts to try and kill me, a person who had dared to break into her house and attack her, she’d had a heart attack and done my job for me.

“Fucking hell.” I suddenly felt some respect and admiration for the woman.